


we'll give our wildest dreaming (and our thoughts to the stars)

by eternal_elenea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_elenea/pseuds/eternal_elenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lives at home with Kim and the dogs, stays away from any and all press, talks to Ivan when it gets to him anyway. He visits Novak's place, laughs until he can't breathe, tilts his mouth up for a kiss just to see the crinkles on the sides of Novak's eyes.</p><p>Theirs is a relationship – a rivalry – that could have gone any of a thousand ways, but this is how it ends up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll give our wildest dreaming (and our thoughts to the stars)

**Author's Note:**

> Wimbledon 2013. Title from "Lifeforms" and "Get Lucky (Cover)" by Daughter. Warning for twisting of press conferences and relationships. Also, for feel-good fic in the form of not actually feel good fic.
> 
> Additional Note: the Kim/Jelena in this fic is _very_ minimal. It's actually more of a reference than anything else, but definitely something I would like to explore further. The reason it's marked at the top is to show lack of infidelity in the summary text; sorry for any confusion!

"You have respect for me," says Andy, dry, not looking up from the television as Novak comes through the door of his house.

"Oh, okay. Is this how it will be, Andy?" Novak says, "No hello, no good evening? No kiss even?"

He bends down to untie his shoes, pretending not to see Andy rolling his eyes.

"It is not like I could say 'I want to bend him over this table in front of all these cameras and fuck him', no?" Novak says, just to make a point.

"Is  _that_  what you would have said?" says Andy, and he's laughing now, which is much better than what he was doing a moment ago, gets up from the couch like he should have done already.

"No, but can you imagine their face?" says Novak, pulling his eyes wide and feigning surprise, fluttering a hand into the air like a Victorian about to faint. Andy grins at him, and his eyes have gotten warm, grabs Novak's shoulder and sidles up to him until Novak obligingly puts his arms on Andy's waist.

"What is that you were saying about bending over tables?" he says.

 

 

 

"How sore can you be for your match tomorrow?" Novak says later, laughing, when he's pinned Andy onto the bed underneath him, because he always has to get the last word between them.

 

 

 

Wimbledon always means too much pressure, but that's something that Andy has learned to deal with, even if only by sheer necessity.

He lives at home with Kim and the dogs, stays away from any and all press, talks to Ivan when it gets to him anyway. He visits Novak's place, laughs until he can't breathe, tilts his mouth up for a kiss just to see the crinkles on the sides of Novak's eyes.

"Mmmm?" Novak half-asks, half-mumbles, still reading his book as Andy loops his arms around Novak's shoulders from behind him, lays his head against Novak.

"Nothing," Andy says, grips him tighter, tries not to think about anything but them, here, now.

 

 

 

They're both really lucky, in the end, for all that Novak thinks about what they can't have. Their problems are so far from the worst that Novak's seen – starving children, grown hopelessness, war (dark fire-lit skies) – that he almost wants to slap himself for dwelling on them.

Because they're the lucky ones, him and Andy; they've got their families, their happiness, `their careers. They've got Kim and Jelena and their friends. They've got each other.

Because they've got the lives that they've always dreamed of, the lives that so many kids have dreamed of and left unfulfilled, and it shouldn't, shouldn't, matter that they can't also always have this.

 

 

 

"Hey," Andy says to Novak in the locker room, grins quick and bright, "Good job today."

Novak's stretching out after his match, ankle on Miljan's shoulder, and he twists his head around to smile back.

"Thank you," he says, genuine, even if it's not close to sufficient.

Novak watches Andy and he knows that they can both feel the space between them, the distance that they carefully maintain and can't bridge. Novak watches Andy and wants to actually be able to say what he means, do what he feels. Andy watches him back, presses a hand to his jaw to find a crick.

"So, I, uh," Andy clears his throat, looks down at the floor between them and then back up, says, "I'll see you later, then." He grabs his bag from the bench, walks out of the room (doesn't look back).

"What was that about?" Miljan says, almost amused.

 

 

 

Tennis is, always has been, a bubble, which means that it's inevitable that some people know. Gossip spreads like it's a small town in this sport, but, even then, there aren't many who have learned about the two of them.

They don't keep a list, but there's a more than quiet understanding between them of who's told. Andy has Ross and Colin; Novak tells Ana and Maria and Viktor. They both told Rafa a long time ago, back when they were just sixteen-year-olds with crushes, and David finds out quietly, but absolutely. Andy doesn't know how someone can walk in on two of his major rivals kissing with barely any reaction at all, but that's exactly what David does.

"Okay, I will see you on the court in a minute, Andy," David says, and walks straight back out.

 

 

 

The press are more difficult because a few of them know too much already.

"Talk about your relationship with Andy; it's a special one," Darren says when Novak comes to the ESPN set.

"It's pretty remarkable how close you two are," he says and this is the game they continue to play.

Because the press either know or they don't; they're either baiting him or trying to get an ounce of truth that he'll never give. So, Novak says the answer he's supposed to, the answer he's practiced a dozen times, smiles the smile that he never had to learn.

Novak keeps them at the distance that he's been made to, throws in an anecdote because he can't help himself, catches himself smiling too wide for a moment.

And they might buy it and they might not, but Novak learned to give up caring a long time ago.

 

 

 

"No, Novak, you can't have that point because you  _nearly_  caught the line," Andy says, like exasperated has become his default emotion; doesn't smile when Novak pouts at him, utterly shameless.

"This is just because there is no hawkeye," Novak complains, raising his fingers to show a tiny gap, "It was definitely a few millimeters in. I am sure."

"Nope," Andy says, both utterly serious and amused, throws him a smirk.

"Andy!" Novak says, pouts even more. "You are not being fair," he says.

"Love you," Andy says to make it up, before he's even thought about it. He catches himself not midway through, but at the end, goes first pale and then grey when he realizes what he's said, where they are. Novak stares at him, stock still. Neither of them breathe.

"Get yourselves a room," says Ivan, lips turned upward, utterly unconcerned.

 

 

 

The list of people who don't know,  _can't_  know, is small, but critically important.

Novak's parents. Novak's team, besides Marian. Marko. Janko. The press.

And they both try to pretend that it's not like a noose around their collective neck, but Andy can see the look in Novak's eyes when he's on the phone with them, sometimes; wishes he could solve it like they've solved everything else.

 

 

 

"No, mama," Andy overhears Novak say, and it's not the first conversation they've had about this and it won't be the last, "I am not proposing to Jecca yet."

And Andy gets it, he does – he understands being bound by family and culture and expectation – but that doesn't mean it doesn't twist something inside him every time he thinks about how much Novak has to hide to even those who love him. He might understand, but it doesn't mean that he wouldn't wish for it to be different, wish that they could tell everyone, the whole world, and have it be okay.

But, it's not that easy, is it?

 

 

 

Kim takes on the whole situation better than he ever could have asked and Andy can't imagine how much worse it would have been if he didn't have her, if Novak didn't have Jelena. She's been his best friend since they were both seventeen, back before either of them had an inkling of how big he was going to be, and he has never understood what he did to deserve her. Even more, he doesn't know how the four of them have managed to keep this ruse together by the skin of their teeth.

"Thanks," he says, one afternoon, when they're walking the dogs, "I don't say it enough, but. Really."

Kim smiles at him, tugs Maggie's leash to keep her close, says, "Well, it's a bit of a mess, all in all, but you did introduce me to Jelena."

"That doesn't make us even," Andy says, because he always struggles to say what he really means.

"No," Kim says, with a laugh, "it really doesn't."

"There's a new Burberry bag that I like," she says, "maybe that'll help. Also, a Porsche and another dog and d'you think you could afford Ireland?"

"Ha fucking ha," says Andy, but he's smiling anyway, because if there's anything that Kim's ever been good at when it comes to him, it's this.

When he goes quiet, a little while after they've let the dogs off of their leashes, Kim runs a hand through her hair, bumps her shoulder into his arm, says,  "Seriously, Andy. It's not easy or anything, but we  _do_  understand, you know."

"How's she doing, by the way?" he asks, glancing over, "Jelena."

Kim looks at him like she knows he's deflecting (and she probably does), but talks about her girlfriend anyway, until he's actually listening to her and not just the inside of his own head.

 

 

 

Andy hears him coming before he sees Novak slam the door open and storm into the showers.

"What the fuck, Andy?" Novak says. 

"What?" Andy says, even though he knows very well what.

He's wet and naked and not making a move to change either of those things and Novak might have cared if Andy hadn't just gotten nearly knocked out of the tournament by Verdasco.

"Do  _not_ ," he says, pushing Andy up against the wall

"No congrats, Novak?" he says, his breath warm, his arms damp underneath Novak's hands, "No kiss good evening?"

"Good job," says Novak, grudgingly, "Try to not do that anymore."

Novak kisses him, hard, swift, takes Andy's breath away in the process. Andy smiles into it because he can't help it, nips at Novak's bottom lip, draws away and then comes back again for another kiss.

"See you at home?" Novak says, beginning to realize that he's come into the showers in the men's locker room at Wimbledon to kiss his #2-ranked boyfriend

"Yeah," Andy says, "yeah, I'll come later. Press first and then I have to pick up a couple things from the house."

"Ok," says Novak.

 

 

 

"You know," Rafa says, consideringly, weeks before Wimbledon even begins, "maybe I find a nice boy and settle down too."

Andy thinks he's drunk, but it's hard to know for sure. His eyes are little out of focus and there seems to be a revolving door of fruity drinks in front of him, but Andy can't drink even one without going fuzzy, so what does he know?

"Like you and Nole," Rafa says and Pico nods along, though Andy doesn't know if he actually agrees or is matching the beat of the music.

"Yeah, maybe you should tell Xisca that," says Andy, taking a sip of his lemonade, not meaning to sound as harsh as he does.

"Xisca," Rafa says, "Xisca is beautiful, no? I love her very much, but..."

He trails off and Andy doesn't press further; Rafa and Xisca always have issues and Rafa, well, he might care, but not enough to do anything about it, especially when she's away.

"I don't know nothing about boys," Rafa says instead, "but they seem easy than girls, no?"

"Yeah, it's a real cakewalk," he says, not fully caring if Rafa understands.

"Cheers," he says, taking another drink and wishing that it would wash the sudden bitterness down.

 

 

 

The truth, though, is that it could be a hell of a lot harder than it is.

It could be them fighting, it could have been them not finding each other at all; it could have been Andy pushing Novak away and Novak letting him.

It could have been them as only rivals, not lovers, and not some combination of the two; stranded and ungrounded and fighting against a desire that's been there almost as long as they can each remember.

It could have been them apart, rather than together.

 

 

 

"Change it to football," Andy says, stretching out on the couch and tucking his feet against Novak's thigh.

"Hold on for a moment, Andy, this finishes in 3 minutes," Novak says, checks his phone, "4 minutes."

"Spain are  _losing_ ," Andy says, like four minutes will change everything, "Here, give me the remote."

"You are impossible," says Novak, more annoyed than fond, but not by much.

"Here," he says, tossing the remote at Andy's chest, tries to pretend that it's not worth it when Andy smiles at him.

"What's for dinner?" Andy says to him, after Spain have missed another chance and proven that four minutes  _don't_  change a thing, and that's more enough to start Novak on the string of grumbled expletives.

 

 

 

Their relationship is sometimes more like a string of affairs across continents and tournaments and hotel rooms. Their days are filled with exchanged key cards and practice and pretending that only the moments behind closed doors really matter. They live on planes and tennis courts rather than their own homes

"Do you ever wish that we could just settle down?" Andy says, because he wonders and exhaustion has broken his filter, "After this, I mean."

"Maybe we can," Novak says, but it sounds skeptical, like they both know it's not true. Just this once, Andy lets himself believe otherwise.

"Where do you want to live?" like a child asking for a bedtime story, like a man asking to be told that his dreams aren't fantasies.

"London, maybe," says Novak, pulls himself closer to Andy on the bed, quiets his voice until Andy can't listen to anything besides this and his own breathing, "New York. Miami. Monte Carlo. Shanghai."

"Belgrade," he says, and it's wistful.

"Belgrade," says Andy, doesn't nod, but only because saying it aloud is enough.

"We will, you know," he says, tired, but serious all the same, "I'm not giving you up."

"No, Andy," Novak says, and it might not be patronizing, but it still feels disingenuous, like Novak still hasn't convinced himself, "I won't give you up."

 

 

 

"How much longer can we do this really, Andy?" Kim says to him over and over in 2009. He doesn't remember if she sounded angry or broken or defeated; doesn't remember if she screamed it or whispered it or just said it, or all three. 

He only remembers that he hadn't responded, remembers that he hadn't been able to justify doing this to her, to  _them_ , any longer. 

He only remembers that he'd begged her anyway, once, and that it's the most selfish thing he's ever done. "Please, Kim," he says, "please, just a little while longer."

"Andy," she'd said, sounding wrecked, tears coming to the corners of her eyes, and left.

 

 

 

(She comes back, eventually, after six months, because she knows better than he does that they have to make this work. 

He opens the door, lets her in, doesn't tell her not to do this for his sake, even though he should.)

 

 

 

"Where have  _you_  been?" Novak says, still on a post-match high.

"Oh, you know, here and there," Andy says, catching himself and playing along.

"Do anything exciting?" Novak says, warm against his ear, pulling him down onto the couch, "like make the final at Wimbledon, maybe?"

Andy hums noncommittally, still not letting himself smile back at Novak's wide, wide, wide grin. "If I had, a congratulations might in order."

"How about you, Nole, do you deserve to be congratulated?" he says, letting himself smile, sly, in Novak's direction, stripping his shirt off in the process of walking over, kicking his racquet bag out of the way.

"Bed?" Novak says, then, after a pause, after starting to suck a hickey into Andy's neck that his whole team will be able to see tomorrow. He grins even wider when Andy doesn't protest, tilts his head into it and lets himself be marked.

"We might not even make it to the couch," Andy says, rumbling.

 

 

 

"We have a professional friendship," Andy says, when they ask him about his relationship with Novak, trying to hold his nerve.

It's a harder question to answer than most because it can't just be a blanket denial, can't be a brush off, can't be another canned answer about respect. It's hard because there are so many things that Andy could say, most of them untrue, and all he can think of is the truth.

Andy's been hounded by the press since he was an eighteen-year-old in the third round of Wimbledon, nothing if not well-prepared; he's thought out his answers to every question that they could ever ask him and some that they won't, but that doesn't mean that he's beyond freezing up, if only for a split-second.

So, he just opens his mouth, doesn't overthink the words that come out, hopes that he says what he's meant to.

"I would hope that when we finish playing it would be different," he says, thinking about their conversation a few nights ago, about his conversations with Kim, and, well, it has to start somewhere.

 

 

 

"Which of us is going to win?" they never ask each other, because that's a line that they are never going to cross. This is the only agreement they have and it's unspoken, unwritten, never to be discussed.

Playing tennis is already hard enough without having to think about this part, about the part where they're rivals, have to play each other in the biggest matches of their careers – about how one of them will win and the other will lose.

Sometimes it's hard, sometimes they have to be apart the night before or the day after; sometimes Andy will pull away, want to be alone, and Novak will have to coax him back. Sometimes Novak will be normal, until he's not anymore, until goes mindless with frustration and resentment and anguish, broken until Andy brings him back together.

Sometimes, they think that they would be better apart, except it's never been, never going to be, true.

 

 

 

"Eventually," Andy tells Kim, without being asked about when they're going to stop this charade, when they're going to tell the truth, when they're going to finally come out. He tells Kim and, for the first time, actually means it.

"Mom," says Novak, tells her something that he can't take back.

 

 

 

Sunday morning dawns with the steady sun and the warmth of a summer day. Andy's face is cast in light and shadow, his hair messy, his breathing still quiet with sleep. Novak rolls onto his back, presses a peck to Andy's cheek, gets up to take a shower. Novak thinks, "This is it," and nothing else, prepares himself for victory and not defeat; knows Andy will do the same.

He walks onto Centre Court, into the roar of fifteen thousand fans, holds his hand up in aknowledgement, meets Andy's eyes across the net before they begin. He is himself and nothing more and nothing else and Andy is exactly who Novak wants him to be, too, and they're the two best players in the world.

This is the great rivalry of their time. This is the great love of their era. This is what they've both fought for their entire lives, each other and a Wimbledon crown.

This is what they've got, only more than they ever could have dreamed.

(This is what they've got, with even, ever, more to come.)


End file.
